Philip Larkin Quotes

Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Aubade."
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Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "High Windows."
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Morning has spread again Through every street, And we are strange again....
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Morning has spread again."
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... in daylight: To be ambitious is to fall in love With a particular life you haven't got And (since love picks your opposite) won't achieve. That's clear as day. But come back late at night, You'll hear a curious counter-whispering: Success, it says, you've scored a great success. Your wish has flowered, you've dodged the dirty feeding....
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Success Story."
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In this dream that dogs me I am part Of a silent crowd walking under a wall, Leaving a football match, perhaps, or a pit, All moving the same way.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Träumerei."
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This is what we fear—no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Aubade."
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Next year we shall be living in a country That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Homage to a Government."
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I wonder love can have already set In dreams, when we've not met More times than I can number on one hand.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Morning has spread again."
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Now night perfumes lie upon the air, As rests the blossom on the loaded bough; And each deep-drawn breath is redolent Of all the folded flowers' mingled scent That rises in confused rapture now.
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Summer Nocturne."
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The notes, random From tuning, wander into the heat Like a new insect chirping in the scrub, Untired at noon. A chord gathers and spills....
Philip Larkin (1922-1986), British poet. "Two Guitar Pieces."
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